


Of Juniberries and Noon Lilies

by SouthernBird



Series: Shance Week 2016 [3]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Altean lance, And Lance is Alfor's youngest, Balmeran Hunk, Galran Shiro, Implied Death, Implied Violence, Includes Personal Theories, M/M, Romance, Shance Week 2016: Bonus, Shiro and Keith are Zarkon's sons, War, Wedding, proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-22
Updated: 2016-11-22
Packaged: 2018-09-01 10:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8620927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: Written for Shance Week 2016! Bonus - Altean!Lance/Galran Shiro-“I would like to marry the Crown Prince of Altea.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> If it wasn't for Sevenfivetwo, I would not have been inspired enough to do this, but their rendition of Altean Lance is just gorgeous and definitely helped this along! (I hope we get more soon, too!)
> 
> Also!! Fanart! Someone has taken their time to create beautiful fanart of one of my stories, and I am still so humbled by Niffty24 (Nife on here :) ) for this beautiful masterpiece! Unfortunately, I am not sure how to link cleanly on Ao3 yet, my apologies! Link: https://niffty24.tumblr.com/post/153534416276/shance-week-bonus 
> 
> (I am still screaming about this.)

“I would like to marry the Crown Prince of Altea.”  


The room falls into a tense, dead silence after what had seemed to be endless hours of discussion, the Galra Empire’s most decorated elites having congregated in Zarkon’s grand throne room to discuss the matter at hand; the war with the Alteans was simply going _nowhere_ , a dead end of a conflict with no victors after heavy casualties and heavy loss of weapons and resources. To continue the war, a squabble that began after an allied pact with Altea turned south rather too abruptly after the collaborative efforts of both Empires’ brightest to invent a peace weapon only known as “Project Voltron” came to a halt under duress.  


The proclamation soon created the mutterings, the whisperings of generals like that caused a ruckus in itself because, the boy has lost his mind, that he, the eldest of Zarkon’s lineage and one of the greatest heroes of the Galran Empire, would hope for… something as insane as proposing to the Crown Prince of Altea. Useless, really, as the Crown Prince was not even in the glimpse of the throne as King Alfor’s eldest daughter, Allura, would have the rightful stake to claim, and what a warrior Queen she would be.

 _Save them all,_ one general muttered, _at least the dumb boy didn’t ask for **her** hand. _ The sighs of _relief_ that accompanied the words were enough to make the Prince growl lightly beneath his breath.

Instead of retaliating with his own remarks, Shiron kneels before his father, head bowed as his ears and fur stand on end– all traits he inherited (he will always claim with pride) from his dearly departed mother who was an early loss in the war when she was being commuted between bases to betray any locations of members of the royal family. Separated from her mate and her sons, her caravan took heavy fire on the happenstance that the Altean fleets found their location.

With a bitter thought, Shiron swallows down his rage and his thirst for vengeance because he has slaughtered and maimed many Alteans in the name of his _mother_.

(It was with only the smallest of regrets that Shiron will admit to himself days ahead in his life that news of the Altean Queen’s demise did bring him such joy, such delight as he hollered and he cheered with his comrades because _the foul Queen is dead._ )  

The generals, in all their disdain and sarcasm, promptly fall silent when their Emperor raises his hand slowly, a simple motion so overpowering, he needs no words to accompany. The action is enough, the stoic façade of a soldier King that has fought and endured so much not only for himself, but for his people, for his scattered family.

His father is still quiet, still mute on the request from his eldest son while his youngest, Keithehl, _thankfully_ is not present due to his own excursions in a neighboring galaxy that has witnessed the onslaught of both Altean and Galran forces. Both of the royal family know that to even fathom such a possibility would invoke the youngest to _gladly_ voice his own opinion, such passionate—more like obstinate– words driven out of his aggressive and impulsive nature.

Then, _finally_ , that even a syllable falls from his father’s mouth causes him to twitch in vernation. “My eldest son,” Zarkon begins, words heavy with age and burdens, “has come before me on this day to request that I allow him to inquire for the hand of King Alfor’s youngest child.”

A few generals snort, the sound derived from the sheer madness of Shiron’s request, yet Shiron kneels still, head hanging low, glowing eyes the same lilac shade of his father’s closed tight in the probable wake of rage he has only ever seen released on the Alteans.

“Answer me, child. I will not abide time for you much longer.”

“Yes, sir!” answers Shiron as he stumbles to stand, stance broad and tight, stiff in all the right areas to show his submission to a higher officer, and really, who is higher than the Emperor himself, the commander-in-chief of the entire Empire he knows as _home_?

Regardless, it’s the little nuances that motivate the eldest heir of the Galran throne, the thoughts of pretty glowing marks, the deepest of blues in those eyes, gorgeous skin that has known the sun as a lover would…  All the stolen moments of his espionage while infiltrating Altean bases to hack for information, or take prisoners of war, have all culminated into a grand, spectacular affair with the young Crown Prince who smiles so brightly, supernovae bursts could never _compare._

It makes Shiron’s heart skip a solid beat before racing, pulse throbbing in his own ear drums. Just the thought of waking up every morning to a new day, to suns so gracious to rise only to weave the brilliance of dawns, and to those dawns reflect in pools of blues that open to the Galran’s kisses…

It would be utterly and entirely perfect.  

As his eldest son daydreams of adoring whispers and intimate kisses stolen behind the guise of ‘spying on the enemy,’ Zarkon watches him with eyes that give nor take, that seem to refuse to divulge his most private and conflicted thoughts. Shiron’s heart races, pulsing vibrantly in the fear of an answer rather than the thoughts of skin bared only to _him_.

Would he even be allowed to humor himself, that the Alteans would allow a beautiful creature such as the Crown Prince to marry a Galran general, especially a general that is the next in line to obtain the Empire in its entirety? Would his father prohibit this venture, even so far as call his own son a _blood traitor_?

“… I will only allow this if King Alfor will permit us audience.”

-

_“He said yes?!”_

Shiron grins, leaning back in the chair of the Black Lion, one of the few pieces of Project Voltron that the Galran Empire managed to obtain before the whole galaxy went to fiery hell. It’s been quiet since the ceasefire was agreed upon hours beforehand, one of the few requests that his fellow generals and father had settled with after uproar due to Zarkon’s agreeance.

“He said yes, kitten,” he returns, voice low and opaque, albeit the communication line he had _insisted_ Pidge (praise her with her maniacal, inventive ways) sync up to Lance’s own Blue Lion (‘Altean’ property, _apparently_ ) was gloated upon as being ‘hack proof.’ “He said yes so long as your father says yes.”

Lance scoffs on the other end, and Shiron perhaps can see within his psyche the cutest roll of eyes that makes his own heart flutter because it’s so damn _adorable._ Then again, every fiber of Lance’s being, both corpulent and not, was adorable, and oh, so very resplendent.

“ _Father will say yes… He says he’s tired of fighting, and unless father keels over as we speak… Allura still has some time before she succeeds the throne_ ,” Lance remarks, almost like he’s just regurgitating information, the lack of video imaging stifling the visualization of the Crown Prince’s face, but Shiron can hear it, hear the bitterness as all children have at the thought of growing old. One day, the Galran will one day sit upon his father’s humble throne, accept the onerous crown as one day, as Lance’s sister will also, and be mindful that on that day, they are truly mature, truly on the path to watch the final decline of their parents’ lives.

Softly, in a pause of their discussion, he briefly hopes that he will at least greet the occasion with a likened mind of humility as he wants to remember his father away from this war, away from iron fisted military tactics and unwilling sacrifices. While years past, there was a time when Emperor Zarkon was respected for his righteousness and for his ideas of bettering the Galran people; now, he can only be attested for keeping those people somewhat safe during the heinous war.

“ _… Do you really want to marry me?_ ”

Like an ocean tide ebbing from the shore, Shiron is drawn from his most secret thoughts, though still somewhat clouded with the reality that the day will come that he will lose his father. It’s a loaded question, a significant query to push through the muddle, to discover if, genuinely, the first time Shiron saw Lance from the scope of his rifle, the Galran imagined bouquets of flowers and a white veil instead of assassination.

Chuckling warmly, the sound vibrating in his throat, Shiron returns a question with his own, “will the moons rise in the Altean sky?”

 _“Of course they would, fluffy dumbass,_ ” though there’s a soft giggle at the end to soothe the supposed bite, to effectuate a smile to his lover’s face instead of a grimace.

“Then as surely as the moons will rise and fall, yes, I do want to marry you.”

-

The treaty seems to be so smooth-sailing compared to the years of tumultuous affairs that it leaves even the wisest and eldest of advisors baffled.

Even Lance’s own bodyguard, a Balmeran that only seemed to respond to the name “Hunk” and pilot of the Yellow Lion, stood in the grand ballroom as the treaty was drawn, contested lightly, then signed and sealed by the Kings and their eldest. The terms were almost childlike, _simple_ , though vague in the uncertainty that ostensibly might elicit the rouse of war cries. With a stroke of the stylus, King Alfor and Emperor Zarkon ended the war, without fuss, without any recourse, even though Allura might have been a bit huffy at the whole pomp and circumstance because she was young and willing to keep fighting the good fight.

Alfor, bless him, with a smile that was so soft around the edges, had only asked for her cooperation as he did not want to leave in his daughter’s hands a _damn_ war.  

_Lance would point out to Shiron, quietly, somberly, that both Alfor and Zarkon had myriads of wrinkles, and had burdened the weight of whole planets for so long that they were **tired**. War had aged them, depleted them so readily of their peoples’ resources, but also of themselves. “They just want to know we’ll be okay…” and Shiron feels it, feels the sadness is the crevices of Lance’s voice, as if retelling the day of when a queen met death quicker than the rest. He kisses away that frown that settles on Lance’s countenance, hoping that the rest of their days are blessed with more opportunities such as this. _

These thoughts would be left for another day, for a time when Shiron was not beside himself with the joy that instead of adversary, instead of enemy and foul breed, rather, he could look upon Lance, drink in the sight as a deprived man would, glowing eyes ravishing over a lithe frame draped in the fineries of Altean garb, chiffon and satin in an arrangement that cling to slight curves and flow about those _gorgeous_ legs.

-

Shockingly, the wedding itself is a far cry from the expected grandiose event, not even overflowing with extravagancies permitted to families of royalty with golds and silvers and jewels alike. Silks and satins are lacking, as are fineries galore, not even the most prestigious of silverware laid out upon the few tables.

No, rather, there are only a few seats for close family and a few friends, only hovering lanterns that light the path both betrothed will make together to the high advisor that will marry them, one escorted from Arus to be an unbiased witness to holy matrimony, to bare the lovers’ bond to the audience of only the most trusted and adored.

Twilight greets both Princes, the sun slipping down to slumber as the last of its rays cast hues of lavender and cerulean, the midnight blues draping along the opposite horizon with a cloak of stars. They walk in unison, both King of Altea and Emperor of Galra standing on each side of the Arus advisor as a display of their truce, of the budding alliance that will be forged anew with the marriage of their sons.

Hunk cries; Lance mentioned in the days leading up to their wedding that he would, but he mentioned this to Shiron with such amusement, it never was meant to mock the Balmeran.  Keithehl is as cordial as he can muster to be, even amicable to a slight degree with Princess Allura though Keithehl finds Coran, advisor to the Altean royal family to be a bit… _too_ enthusiastic. Otherwise, no ill will rots at this momentous day, no conflict arises to burden the happy couple.

As the Arus advisor begins the marriage ritual, Shiron wonders why their fathers caved so easily in signing a thread bare true. It is almost out of a child’s fairy tale, almost makes his fur stand on end while his ears twitch—“and you call _me_ kitten, cat ears,” Lance mutters into one of their many wedding kisses—to focus on each syllable that the advisor says. Here they are, truly set against the odds in their almost star-crossed romance, and yet, instead of watching the other with such misery or to keep their affair secret under monitoring drones and skeptical eyes, they are to be _married._

Lance smiles behind his veil, the same veil his mother wore at her own wedding, a decision on Lance’s part after their marriage a real, tangible thing that was matter of _when_ rather than _if_. “Cat ears, you’re being asked a question,” he whispers, chuckling as Shiron _yelps_ and turns to the advisor to smooth over the offense.

The advisor only cocks an eyebrow before grinning wide and sly, “your spouse may be the most beautiful sight for you today, but hold yourself; do you take the Crown Prince of Altea as your bonded one?”

“I-I do,” Shiron affirms, the words rumbling along each other, but the intent is there, the belying foundation that yes, he does, he wants Lance the same as he did the moment blue eyes glanced his direction, caught the sight of the scope and the calm that stood in the wake of a bullet. The horror, of course, the tension of the next expected move creased along the edges of those eyes, the corners of that pretty mouth; Shiron’s finger hesitated, and the Galran could not shoot.

He could not _kill_ a creature such as this, could not bear to have this vibrant one’s blood on his hands, too. The act would be sin incarnate, so dark and _evil_ that Shiron would have suspected then that there are no victors in wars because all participants of war are bathed in the blood of innocence just as they are bathed in the blood of soldiers.

The rest of the moments blur, fade into a sense of realism that casts Shiron astray because Lance replies to the advisor _‘I do’_ just as the Galran had, just as his now husband had prior. It’s heart-pounding, tear-jerking even, if Hunk’s sobs are to be believed, that there are there, standing in fading twilight with only ceremonial lights hovering above them before the advisor kindly says, “you may now kiss and form an eternal bond that can only be broken with death.”

Reluctantly, because it all still seems surreal and fleeting, Shiro’s hands, encased in the gloves of his formal armor, touch the delicate end of the veil. What if he tears it? Rips it? Would Lance cry? Would… would he still want to marry someone with purple fur, pupil-less eyes, and scars mottling his body abound?

“Lift the damn thing already and kiss!” Oh, that’s Pidge. She’s yelling, standing in her chair, fuming because apparently, her general takes too damn long to lift up a single intricate piece of lace.

His hesitation and Pidge’s ‘encouragement’ are met with the chiming of a giggle, Lance’s own hands gently enveloping Shiron’s so that they both raise the veil. Purple meets glimmering blue, the warm light seeming to curl in the jubilant tears that sit on the corners of Lance’s eyes.

“Kiss me?”

The request is a boundless one, sweetly given, cascading into tender tones into the air between them, still and sure. It subdues the fear, smothers the worry that still clings to the dark voices of Shiron’s mentality. Here before the Galran is his now husband, his treasure, the one he wants to spend every waking moment with in nothing more than wedded bliss, wherever life may lead them.

All the more, the elatedness in the Altean tempts Shiron, gives him all the more reason to feel springtime on his lips, to feel the blooms of juniberries in the Altean fields and noon lilies in Galran valleys as he graces his husband with a blissful grin. Lance reciprocates with a smile that is so bright and warm, there is nothing else to be done but simply kiss.  


End file.
